Sherlock Holmes Has a Heart
by LaughterNeverDies
Summary: In which Sherlock Holmes finds he is capable of love, and the journey it takes him on.  Sherlock/Irene/John  I do not own any characters etc. Please review, any comments/suggestions will be gratefully received.
1. Chapter 1

It was a cold November morning. A man lay in his double bed, in his plain room, surrounded by an extensive accumulation of curious novels, written by an eclectic mix of equally curious authors. Nine black leather notebooks, each filled in his feverish cursive hand, lay scattered at the foot of the plain bed. Ice frosted on the window pane overlooking the rooftops of the old Victorian houses behind his own. The man's seductively analytical gaze found the face of the young woman whose body was tangled in his own. Her soft lips, which still held a tint of the lipstick she had worn the night before, were parted slightly in sleep. The man knew that if he were to raise a hand to his own they would come away with a trace of that familiar crimson. Her eyelids fluttered in dream, the man found this endearing, which came as a surprise even to him. Even more startling was the faint smile that played on the edge of his lips as he swept a stray lock of dark hair from her brow. He had known her for such little time yet he had already grown accustomed to all her mannerisms and the almost undetectable movement of her body and features. She was sleeping so soundly that it would pain him to disturb her in that state. The man carefully separated his body from hers, removing his own hand where it had been pressed against her smooth warm back, untangling their legs and arms from each other, drawing the sheets around her shoulders to cover her bare skin. The man dressed quietly, his curly dark hair was untamed and rough, his clothing from last night crumpled hopelessly on the floor. He slipped out through the crack by the heavy wooden door.

The girl woke to find the man gone and distant sounds of pans being clattered outside the door. Cold light filtered through the clouded glass, dousing the room in early morning haze. The creamy walls and smooth, worn wooden floorboards reflected the bedroom in a dreamlike state. She slid to the edge of the bed, gathering the sheets around her slender form. Draped over the back of the cracked red leather armchair were her clothes. The chair was one of the only pieces of furniture in the room, save for the bed and a bookcase crammed with old books and a few yellowed animal skulls. A dusty photo frame hung precariously on the cracked wall displayed an illustration of a black dog with a demonic expression, all slavering teeth and blazing eyes, she shivered. Unable to find an item of clothing of her own that was acceptably warm, the girl hastily wriggled into the creased white shirt the man had abandoned on the carpet. She breathed his cologne, the scent of which still clung to her skin, and suppressed a little smile. She padded with bare feet to the door, and peered around the frame...

John Watson climbed the creaking staircase, his light, quick footfalls stirring century's old dust between the cracks in the boards. He'd passed his landlady Mrs Hudson by the door; she had given him a startled but no less curious smile, as he darted past her with a short hello and a boyish grin. John whistled a tune spiritedly, as he bounded up the last steps to the apartment he shared with the world's only consulting detective. John stopped short of the kitchen, where he found his flatmate engaged in and act so shocking that he found himself unable to proceed into the room.

Sherlock Holmes stood with his back to his friend; he appeared to be making breakfast. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up to his elbows, and he was humming to himself as he mixed a pan of eggs over the heat of the stove. John's brow furrowed, Sherlock never cooked, ever. In all the time he had lived here Sherlock had not so much as made toast. "Hello John." He said loudly, "Sleep well at Sarah's?"

"Very." John replied, feigning to be oblivious to his friend's teasing. "And yourself?" he returned. "Oh, very well indeed" Sherlock replied, a wry smile tugging at his lips. John was used to Sherlock's general comment of 'sleeping is dull' but this answer caught him off guard. To Sherlock, the average routine of a normal human being seemed almost alien to him, he was only truly entertained when there was a good mystery, something to be deduced, to chase and unravel. He was like a cat with a yarn, though there is an eventual end to every case, the anticipation of tugging at that single thread of chance seemed crucial to his being and very sanity. Anxious to discover the cause of his friend's peculiar behaviour, John addressed Sherlock from across the room where his feet were still securely rooted to the ground. "You never make breakfast" he said cautiously. There was silence as Sherlock continued on his culinary expedition. "Sherlock?" then,

"Hrm?" as the detective acknowledged his existence.

"I said you never make breakfast" John persevered.

"That's a statement not a question; if you desire a response from me then you should have asked me why I was making breakfast on this fine day."

"Sherlock it's pissing down with rain."

"Is it? I hadn't noticed." Sherlock piled the steaming eggs onto a plate. It was then that John caught a slight movement in corner of his eye.

Irene Adler dragged her fingers through her mess of tangled hair, teasing out the knots as she approached. The smell of eggs wafted invitingly through the crack in the door, and the measured tones of two people in conversation found her ears. She said nothing, but prised the ancient door open. She saw Sherlock leaning casually against the counter, a plate of eggs in his hand, he looked faintly amused. Irene struggled to pull her eyes away from his tousled hair, his hands, something about that patch of skin where his clean white shirt was unbuttoned at the top made her feel slightly giddy. A phrase she had read in a book once came to her then, 'there was a gravity in his manner', and it seemed perfectly fitting to describe how his presence in the room was all consuming. He turned to her, his deep blue eyes resting on her face, then on his shirt, which, as she was well aware, hung off her like a coat on a hat stand. Sherlock made no effort to suppress his smile, "John this is Irene Adler, Irene this is John Watson." He gestured to each of them in turn. Irene looked expectantly at John Watson, who had the uncanny expression of a rabbit caught in the headlights. His eyes were wide and startled, and his jaw hung loosely on his face. "Hi" she said brightly. This seemed to snap him out of his stupor. "Hi, sorry, how are you?" he spoke and moved all at once, and shook her hand carefully, like he was afraid it might break off in his. "Fine, thanks" she replied, looking up in time to see John give Sherlock a questioning look and a raised eyebrow.

Sherlock Holmes heard the door to his room scrape the floor. Irene looked bemused; she had an indescribable glow about her. She was dressed in his shirt he had discarded earlier, and looked painfully beautiful in the early morning light. Sherlock couldn't help the smile that he could feel spreading across his face. John, on the other hand looked like someone had just slapped him. John gave him a surprised but understanding look as he shook her hand. After the awkward introduction, and a long silence, "Right, well, it was lovely to meet you but I'm afraid I must be off." John said with a warm smile, "Where to?" Sherlock asked, puzzled,

"We need more groceries," John replied, then he shifted a little, "Uh, can I borrow your card?" he ventured sheepishly. Sherlock set down the plate he had been holding, strode to the table and picked up his wallet, thumbing out a shiny plastic credit card, which he flicked into John's outstretched palm. John nodded his thanks and crossed the room to the door. Irene and Sherlock turned to each other shyly. Sherlock closed the distance between them and took her in his arms, crushing her body against his. They stumbled into the bedroom; Sherlock pulled her onto the bed, kissing her passionately. Outside, just as John took hold of the tarnished door knob there was a loud and impatient rapping on the wood of the door coming from the hall. He cautiously opened the door, which was flung violently out of his hands as Inspector Lestrade burst into the tiny flat. "Sherlock what the hell happened?" He demanded, then "-sorry John" as he noticed him stumble dazedly into the hall and down the stairs to the street. "I've been calling your mobile for an hour." He called into the deathly silence. "Sherlock?" he said, unsure if he had just made a fool of himself by talking to an apparently empty flat.

The couple flinched as the door banged, Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration as Lestrade's furious voice bellowed through the walls. He rolled off the bed and stood looking down apologetically at Irene who propped herself up on her elbows and looked at him questioningly. "I am so sorry." He murmured, kneeling down next to the bed. "I'll make it up to you I promise." Then he walked purposefully to the door and opened it wide and Irene caught sight of Lestrade silhouetted against one of the far windows. "Yes?" he said a little breathlessly, uncomfortably aware that his hair was ruffled and his shirt had become untucked. Lestrade appeared not to pick up on this, and proceeded to tell him that he was needed on a case the other side of London two hours ago. "Aaaah," Sherlock said slowly, "well then I'll be along soon, just give me ten minutes." But Lestrade hadn't heard him; Sherlock followed his eyes to the door where Irene, hurriedly dressed in jeans and blouse had frozen in his gaze. Lestrade moved mechanically, his head turning very slowly towards Sherlock. "On second thoughts, let's go now, I'll get my coat." Sherlock rushed. Lestrade's mouth gaped a little, and he looked as though he may speak, which, Sherlock acknowledged, would be a disastrous occurrence. Irene watched as Sherlock shrugged on the dark woollen coat that billowed around him dramatically as he swung it over his shoulders. Lestrade seemed currently incapable of competent thought, so Sherlock placed his hand on his back and steered him out the door. Before he followed, he glanced back and winked at Irene, shutting the door behind him.

As Sherlock closed the front door of 221B Baker Street, the rain had relented and the sun pushed against the heavy band of cloud that smothered its brilliance. Lestrade turned to him; he was trying valiantly to fight back the grin that took his face like a fast flowing stream over a haggard rock. Sherlock gave him a withering look "Don't." He said firmly.

"That was unexpected."

"Leave it."

Lestrade smirked. Sherlock looked less than amused. At that moment, John appeared from around the corner, minus the shopping. "Hello John." Lestrade greeted him cheerily.

"Where are the groceries?" Sherlock asked as he approached.

"Store was closed." John offered, shrugging. He shot a sly glance at Sherlock, Lestrade following his gaze with equal amusement. A small chuckle escaped John involuntarily. "So when exactly-" He began bravely, but was cut off by Sherlock's steely glare. He snatched his credit card from John's outstretched hand and stormed off down the street, refusing to be the target of their childish games. Lestrade caught up with him as John turned the corner into Baker Street. "It's surprising how you can go off some people." Sherlock said loudly as Lestrade trotted up and fell into step at his side. "Sherlock don't be like that. It was just a bit of a shock that's all." He explained. "You know we never thought of you as the relationship type." He continued precariously, like navigating a minefield, he related. Sherlock said nothing, but kept striding forwards with his long slender form dwarfing Lestrade as he fought to keep up. "Well it seems odd that this should come as a surprise to you, Lestrade, as I seldom live up to people's expectations." Sherlock muttered at last.

"She must be special then, this girl." Lestrade pursued, "I've never known you to let someone come so close to you before." There was silence. "Sherlock, if you don't talk to me I'll just carry on."

"How is it possibly in any way your business?" Sherlock retorted indignantly.

"Sherlock, you should know that I consider you my friend. In other words, I'm one of the few people who tolerate you. Please tell me, I'm just curious." There was a speculative pause.

"Her name is Irene Adler. She is one of the most brilliantly dangerous people I have ever had the misfortune to know." He said in all in one breath.

"Oh." Lestrade said, shaping the word with a small circle of his lips. Sherlock gulped a breath, he seemed to be deep in thought, but his mouth betrayed the faintest flicker of a smile. Lestrade smiled too, because it was clear that Sherlock finally had someone in his life that made him truly happy, and maybe, just maybe, someone he could even love. Was he capable of such emotions? He wondered. The sky had grown darker, but the rain held back still. "Good for you." He concluded.

"Indeed."


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock Holmes rarely slept. His brilliant mind was too busy processing and deducing to switch off, and John rather got the impression that Sherlock thought the world would do something idiotic like blow up if he wasn't alert and awake to babysit. On the occasion that the Consulting Detective did eventually fall unconscious, usually in his long suffering chair or at the table face down on his notes, John would be considerate and try not to breathe too loudly or think too hard in case he was heard. He had learnt to fold himself onto the carpet and quietly immerse himself in a book, wincing slightly at the regular flutter of a page as it was turned. It was one such occasion, on a dark and typically broody English day, when the clouds hung suffocatingly low, the world was dark and the air was thick with anticipation of the long overdue storm. The flat was almost silent. The only sound was the whisper of the words chasing each other and jostling for room in John Watson's head as he devoured each page of an engrossing novel, and the steady measured breath of Sherlock Holmes, who was reclined in his chair, jaw slack, eyes rolled back in his head, concealed by heavy lids. He deserved this, John mused, this peace. The case had been long and strenuous, with an infuriating chain of dead ends and misleading alibis. Sherlock had of course feigned total control of the case, which John had been pretty certain, was a feat of commendable acting on his part. The deafening placidity was broken by the violent and somehow intrusive vibration of Sherlock's phone which lay on the side table. Sherlock stirred in sleep, his eyelids fluttered but remained closed. John dragged his limbs from under him, and stood as a crippling bout of pins and needles stuck him. He hobbled pitifully across the room and groped for the phone, checking the caller ID. Mycroft. He sighed inwardly, knowing this would mean more running around, and also having to deal with a grumpy Sherlock when he finally roused him. His thoughts were brought to an abrupt halt by the click of the infamous British Army Browning L9A1 somewhere near his temple. "Put, the phone, down." Sherlock slurred.

"What?" John choked.

"Hang up. It's my brother. Hang up now." Sherlock repeated, articulating clearly. John sighed, tossing the phone more forcefully than intended into his friend's crotch. "OW." He retorted indignantly. Sherlock scrutinized the phone before clicking it off. He didn't set it down, instead letting it hang loosely in his slender fingers before the phone began to buzz persistently against his palm for a second time. He sighed dramatically and hauled his lanky form out of the chair, swooping into the kitchen in his dressing gown before answering the call. John fought to still the papers that had been stirred by the sudden waft of air as Sherlock skulked around the room. "What?" He spat venomously into the phone. John could detect the measured and patient tone of voice Mycroft seemed to reserve purely for speaking to his younger brother from his position on the floor. After a brief conversation which included many scathing remarks of inadequacy on Sherlock's part, the detective disappeared into his room, reappearing fully clothed. John had barely had a chance to compose himself before Sherlock ushered him up off the floor and out the door. John was just able to tie his shoes, earning him an impatient glare from the form that loomed behind him, tapping its foot. Sherlock snatched John's coat off the hook on the back of the door and herded him down the stairs to the street.

It had been three days since John had met Irene Adler. Overall there had been no visible change in Sherlock's mood but John suspected he was happier than he let on. The case consumed most of the day, and even though John complained about the running, he was secretly delighted by the quickening of his pulse and the adrenaline singing through his veins, the thrill of the chase.

The pair returned doggedly to their flat at nearly 8pm. John led the way up the dark stairs, but paused on the landing as he noticed a strip of soft honey coloured light pooling outside their door. He didn't remember leaving a light on, and waited cautiously as Sherlock caught up with him. Sherlock dragged himself up the last few steps, but as his foot struck the next his body became ridged and frozen as he noticed the light outside their front door. With noticeable glee he skipped the last steps, shoving his friend to the wall, and threw the door wide.

There she was, the single point of brilliant light in his life. Like a star growing stronger and more dazzling in the dark and desolate void of space, until all Sherlock could focus on was her. Irene Adler was reclined in Sherlock's favourite chair, her feet kicked against the mantelpiece. She cradled in her hands a battered copy of Jane Eyre, and twirled a lock of her silky dark hair in her fingers absently. Sherlock advanced into the room as casually as he could muster, swinging his coat over the coat hook. He looked ill at ease in his own living room, and stepped with restraint, carefully placing one foot in front of the other. "Hello." He ventured. John could hear the smile in his voice though he had a view of the back of his friend's head. "Hello." She replied, glancing up from the book and fixing him with her delicate brown eyes. Swinging her legs gently down to the threadbare rug, Irene crossed them over her knees and steepled her fingers thoughtfully, as John had seen Sherlock do so many times before. He wondered briefly if this was Irene mocking her lover or instead if it was a mannerism that Sherlock had picked up from her. "I did a little breaking and entering." She spoke at last, giving a flirtatious little smile. "You were out so long you see, and I couldn't bear to wait any longer." Irene rose from the chair, and danced lightly to Sherlock's side. "I hope you don't mind" She purred, taking his hands and stretching up to press a teasing kiss to the corner of his mouth, which was pulled into a wide smile. "Not at all" Sherlock replied, his voice a little gruff.

"I thought we could go out a while." She said happily, leading him into the middle of the room, pressing herself against his side as he encircled her waist with his arm. Suddenly Sherlock had lost all trace of the fatigue he had been displaying earlier. John stood awkwardly in the hall, shuffling his feet. "Of course you're welcome to come too" Irene added warmly. "A handsome Doctor like you is sure to have a lovely lady to accompany him on a beautiful night like this." He acknowledged the complement with a small smile, and looked to Sherlock for approval. Sherlock nodded in agreement, "Invite Sarah John, I know she'll be thrilled." Satisfied, John dug in his pocket for his phone, unearthing the layer of fluff and grit which lined his pocket in his search. He pulled the phone out, triumphant, and then he asked, "Wait, where are we going?" He scanned the faces of the two as they moved across the room to the sofa, blissfully unaware of his existence. Sherlock turned, "Who knows?" he said with a grin.

The Thames rippled and writhed in the submissive secrecy of the night. The streetlamps gleamed off the wetted road as the two couples navigated the labyrinth of back alleys of London's dark and intriguing moonlit hours. When the sun set low on the industrial horizon, the city became a different place. Sherlock allowed himself to be led through the night around the city he had mapped so flawlessly in his mind. With Irene, they didn't just see the city, they experienced it. The ebb and flow of the waking world, snatches of long forgotten songs and enticing music poured from the pubs and clubs along the Southbank. Soon they were lost in a city that was still valiantly fighting the impending dawn, exhilarated and exhausted, battling sleep, not wanting to succumb to the weight of their heavy limbs. Irene flitted between illusive bars where twisted people with sordid secrets nursed poisonous drinks in the shadows cast by the soft glow of artificial lighting. Each patron with their own stories, missing limbs and split personalities paid no heed to the four figures weaving through the throngs to the bar. They passed undetected, invisible ghosts in the lives of the emotionally dead. These were her people. They weren't good people, honest or trustworthy, but they had stories to tell, dangerous secrets and broken promises which were worth more than any normality they could bestow on those who would sit and listen. They had out lived their lives and worn out dreams, Irene would talk with these wandering souls until her hunger for knowledge was satisfied, and the first light of the breaking dawn split the horizon, and life was restored by the arrival of the new day.

Sarah beamed at John from across the sticky table where they were seated in a claustrophobic pub none of them could remember the name of. Her hand searched for John's between the table legs and grasped it in her own. She caressed his calloused hands with her fingers, smoothing the wrinkles and smiling into his eyes. Sherlock and Irene spoke in hushed tones in the corner of a cracked leather booth. Sherlock reached a hand behind his neck and mussed up his hair a little as he spoke. It was a common action John was used to, Sherlock did it when he was thinking, like he was trying to stimulate a small significant part of his brain. John hoped Sarah wasn't too uncomfortable, but she seemed at ease in the unfamiliar surroundings amongst the shady people crowding the bar.

Irene sat with one leg tucked underneath her slight body. She wore dark jeans and a fitted chiffon top the colour of dried blood. She was stunning. Sherlock observed the way she held herself, her head raised intuitively, like she was scenting the air, such as a proud stallion would do. She tossed her mane of silky brown hair, and fixed him with a critical gaze. "You're quiet" she mused. Sherlock said nothing, but appeared to be analysing the room with a slight frown. Irene began to relay the information she had learned about the intoxicated individuals of the pub. "That lady there was the lead in a glamorous Broadway show. A former lover framed her for attempted murder." She paused for a moment, scanning the room, bright eyes darting from one familiar face to the next. "The man seated at the bar there-" she smiled sadly to herself, and pointed unashamedly towards the person in question "he fell in love with a prostitute in Thailand in 2004. She was killed by a client the night he left." Sherlock's gaze came to rest on the hunched figures as she reeled off the information she had memorized so flawlessly. "Lost custody of his kids in divorce, gambled his life away in Monaco, sacked after sleeping with her boss, daughter died of cancer, her husband left her for her sister."

"Why do they tell you this?" Sherlock said at last, turning to face her with a quizzical look on his face. Irene studied the line of a frown on his smooth forehead, the curve of his gentle lips which were set in a firm line. "Because I listen." She said simply. He remained in quiet contemplation, waiting for her to elaborate. "I think to them, I'm just a patient shadow, lending an ear." She looked dubious for a moment. "Sometimes hearing about how someone else has lived their lives and what they're experienced, what they regret, the mistakes they made and their happiest moment turns out to be the perfect cure for indecision in your own life." She clarified. Sherlock reached gingerly across the smooth leather until he found her hand, entwining their fingers, running a thumb across her knuckles. He smiled, because he understood. Outside the air was cold with the frost of early morning. They had talked for hours, the four of them seated around that table in the grotty pub. Sherlock observed the way John acted with Sarah, he was relaxed and he joked and laughed and stared adoringly into her eyes, drinking her in. He didn't know much about relationships, with anyone but Her, but Sherlock knew enough to see how John felt about this woman.

It seemed as though the whole world was still asleep, stumbling bleary eyed through the Sunday morning haze. John had taken Sarah home a few hours ago, tripping from inhaling the crisp heady air into their frozen lungs. They had got into a cab, but Sherlock had, as usual, noticed everything, such as the fact that John didn't have enough money for the ride home. Sherlock slipped him the rest of the fare.

Irene Adler regarded the Thames with a quiet contemplation. Her slender legs were stretched out in front of her, crossed at the ankles. Her fingers laced together over her stomach. Sherlock watched her in fascination, the way her brow furrowed in concentration, and the way she was unconsciously pouting slightly. They sat at almost opposite ends of the bench which sparkled with frost in the weak sunlight that filtered through the clouds. "Where did you go, Irene?" Sherlock said suddenly, shattering the silence. "Peru." She answered a beat too fast, as if she had been expecting the question. Her gaze never wavered from the rippling of the grim water against the bank. Sherlock nodded, like that made sense of it all. "I never meant to leave, Sherlock." She said earnestly, feeling the cool wet dew on his coat beneath her fingers as she touched his arm. Sherlock sighed, tipping his head back so his hair was dampened by the varnished wood. Her brief contact was a release from the stress and tension building inside his chest. The warmth of her presence coursed through him, like the buzz of nicotine in his veins. He closed his eyes. "It's very late, or I suppose, very early." He said, standing and turning to face her. They were both obviously tired, but too proud to show it. Irene drew her legs under her and rose from the bench. Sherlock offered her his arm and looked delighted when she slipped her hand through and took gentle hold of the inside of his elbow, resting her head against his broad shoulder. The heels of her scuffed leather boots sounded against the cobbles, echoing through the near deserted streets as they strolled away from the churning waters of the Thames. She suppressed a shiver, her jacket was thin, but his was heavy and warm. She knew he had noticed, yet he didn't offer her his, she was glad of this, she couldn't deal with being patronised like a weak little girl. "Will you stay this time?" He said into her hair. Sherlock breathed deeply, inhaling her fragrance. He detected citrus and liquorice among other things, as well as something unmistakably Irene, the scent of adrenaline, of passion, long turbulent nights and interrupted dreams. "That depends on the circumstances. Perhaps, but I won't settle down, you know that." She said firmly. His silence said more than he could put words to. "This life is all we have, and some people will never live it, and that, Mr Holmes, is the saddest thing of all." He drew her closer. The sun split through the clouds and bathed them in a light so dazzling it lit their eyes like a million stars, and for a second it seemed as though the world had stopped turning for this moment, for these two people, and the next chapter of their story.


	3. Chapter 3

Irene Adler tore down the alley way, her heart beat furiously against the cage of her ribs, fighting the dizzying adrenaline which pulsed through her body, willing her legs to move faster. Her senses were invigorated by the ever present dread and sickening excitement of her pursuer. Her feet pounded against the concrete with such force that the soles of her feet stung and the muscles in her legs ached with exertion. She rounded a corner and found herself on a deserted street, she sprinted into the dark without a moment's hesitation as the grind of a misplaced step sent the person hounding her skidding to the ground clumsily, surrendering their chase. She raced the last meters to Tower Bridge effortlessly, gasping breaths as she leant over the railing to gaze out to the river boats running tourists about London. She smiled inwardly at her small triumph, winning was always fun no matter your age. She hadn't been there long, but long enough to regain her poise and get a sufficient amount of oxygen into her lungs before Sherlock came sprinting up behind her. He fell gracelessly against the wall and choked out a welcome. His hair was attractively windswept, and his coat was pulled oddly around his slender frame where he had collapsed. There was a swatch of grime smeared across his right trouser leg from his ungainly mishap where he had lost his footing and fallen at the corner. She eyed him expectantly as he writhed mentally with frustration and defeat. "That wasn't fair; you're too much of a distraction to chase." He said sulkily. Irene tossed her hair nonchalantly and smiled sweetly, "Life's not fair." She pointed out.

They retired to a cafe nearby, ordering hot drinks to warm them after their training. Sherlock watched the granules of sugar spin helplessly in a clockwise formation, caught in the dark tempest of coffee churned in the polystyrene cup. He could feel the raw heat of the concentrated adrenaline from the chase dissolving through his body, and the cold regret of defeat seizing and chilling his limbs and souring his expression. Irene contemplated the street with fascination, drumming her fingers absently on her own cup clasped in her hand. Sherlock grimaced in humiliation. He was glad John wouldn't hear of this. His mood worsened at the sight of Irene's other hand cunningly hidden from his line of sight beneath the table, tapping feverishly at the keys of her mobile while she held a calm demeanour and sipped her tea casually. Sherlock reached for her hand and prised the phone from her grasp, brushing her fingers lightly against his own, which sent an annoying jolt of electricity through him, studying her face as he did so. Sherlock had electrocuted himself on numerous occasions on account of his many unpredictable experiments, but it didn't mean he had got used to receiving that sudden spark of heat and surprise from any human contact, however brief. He looked at her nervously, in the hope that she had felt it too. In response, Irene gently laced their fingers together and held them beneath the table where no one could see. She knew Sherlock didn't like public displays of affection, especially towards him, so she strived to accommodate this in her actions. Keeping their hands entwined, Sherlock edged around the booth to where Irene was seated, and sat very close to her so that their shoulders were touching. One text to John Watson, outlining his shameful defeat, he sent it without thinking, swallowing his pride, exercising the odd sensation of dropping his facade of calm, and did nothing more.

Sherlock flexed his sinewy forearm, watching the taught muscle and veins slip against each other beneath the papery skin. A low, guttural moan escaped his parted lips as the nicotine spread its feverish tendrils throughout his body. Every sense was elevated, refined, and tuned to a thrilling frequency. The monotonous drone of the traffic carried with it the tang of exhaust fumes and a stimulating snatch of conversation on the bite of cold wind from the cracked window of 221B Baker Street. The broken leather felt smooth and pulled slightly at his clammy skin, the exhausted timber drew him into the sofa, enclosing him tightly against the backrest. Sherlock detected a hint of must creeping to his nostrils from the accumulation of books huddled together on the excessive amount of bookcases. He could almost hear them whispering, sharing their curious knowledge and jostling about on the shelves. It was an ever present drone, which others failed to hear, resembling the hum of bees, swarming words flitting between the pages and hissing a tantalising discourse of information of their contents, infesting his absent mind. Then there was the intrusive staccato of heels on the ancient floors. Irene crossed the room, her fingers brushed his forearm, Sherlock shivered. She tore one of the four thin adhesive patches from his arm, in the same fluent motion as one would strike a match. His skin flushed pink and angry. Sherlock grunted in protest but his eyes remained shut. Irene closed her hand around the nicotine patch, crushing it beneath her fingertips. She flicked it vengefully and it struck Sherlock on his temple, 'such an impossible man' she confided to herself, returning wordlessly to her seat. Sherlock threw his legs over the arm of the sofa, and padded to the kitchen bare footed. He was dressed entirely in a tailored suit which accentuated his lean body flatteringly, but, for some reason, he wasn't wearing any shoes. Irene thought it best not to ask.

Sherlock studied the eyeballs critically as they rotated on the little turntable within the microwave. As of yet there was no visible reaction. He huffed distractedly and punched the buttons of the microwave, wrenching the cross hatched glass door open forcefully. He whipped the dish out, bringing it level with his face so he could study the glassy retinas of the detached orbs with greater scrutiny. Sherlock paced the room in indecision; one hand worried the nape of his neck subconsciously. Eventually he took the dish in hand, thrusting it into the recesses of the fridge, knocking aside the slowly decomposing decapitated human head. Sherlock was not in the habit of assigning names to the dismembered human limbs he distributed about the flat, but John had once referred to the head as 'Albert', remarking that it was a name that suited him amiably. Sherlock had seen no reason to argue, and, having no strong opinions on the name Albert, he had allowed the name to stick. Albert was in a very bad way. His usefulness, Sherlock feared, was wearing thin, like the flesh of his jaw. Soon Albert would be redistributed to his rightful place, whether that was a respectful grave, or a rubbish tip, Sherlock was of yet unsure.

Once again Sherlock Holmes was summoned to the hallowed halls of Scotland Yard via the incessant vibration of his BlackBerry, which tracked neat concentric circles on the worn wood side table. Irene stirred in her chair but made no move to silence the angry pulsing of the phone. Very few people considered themselves within any right to touch Sherlock's phone. She was one of them; the other was Dr. John Watson. In any case, she preferred to let Sherlock alone when he was working. Although, she had grown weary of his gruff sensual moans as he administered the nicotine patches to his forearms in dosages far more indulgent than would seem wise. Irene drew the proverbial line at six. There was a difference between stimulating and endangering your sanity.

Sherlock re-appeared; somewhere between invading the kitchen and entering the living room he had managed to locate himself a pair of shoes and had put them on, though the laced trailed limply on the ground. Sherlock reached for the phone, his fingertips inches away from its smooth, shiny surface when John Watson burst into the flat. People did a lot of bursting into his flat, Sherlock observed. He was surprised the door had not vacated its hinges from all the bursting. John was panting in ragged, irregular breaths. He stumbled erratically into the flat and peeled his scarf from his neck, and then he fumbled clumsily with his name tag from the clinic, cursing as he pricked the pad of his thumb on the safety pin. Sherlock and Irene exchanged bemused glances. Sherlock reached the last few centimetres to his phone and navigated it with impressive agility and speed, his thumbs barely grazing the keys as he texted a reply to Lestrade's urgent plea, identical to the one John had undoubtedly received moments before, judging by his uncharacteristic behaviour.

'Copycat serial killer, your area? Please come.'

'On my way – SH'

John straightened up, placing his hands on his hips in a way which made him seem almost heroic, and at the same time vaguely a bit of an idiot. Sherlock looked sceptical. "Right, let's go." John said matter-of-factly. Sherlock stooped and began to leisurely tie his shoelaces. John's smile faded on his lips, Irene watched the humorous scene unfold, the contrast between the two was startling at times. John whipped out his phone and began to scroll through his messages, dropping the action man pose. Sherlock stood nonchalantly and took his coat from the hook, draping it around his elegant shoulders. "Come along, John, we can't keep the inspector waiting." Sherlock ushered in his familiar, resonant intonation. They made for the door. "Nice try, but I'm not missing this one, dear." Irene cut in, striding between them and donning her own coat of a deep midnight blue. Sherlock shrugged, offering her his arm, all three of them descended the stairs.

A few hours later, and London was suspended in the infinite lull of a lucrative and sleepy night before it relented to the impending dawn. Their breath ghosted trails of frost which dissipated in the grim December chill. Irene sought solace in the ethereal snatches of moon light that struggled against the sombre opaqueness of the towering buildings, which enclosed the narrow alleyways. John Watson tore through the night, carving a path in the soupy, cold air. His body resisted the drag of fatigue as he pressed onwards, tailing the quickly retreating billow of the Consulting Detective's coat as it disappeared in the folds of darkness. John's heart was strong and capable; it thrummed steadily as his feet pounded the asphalt, the cold stung his eyes and choked his desperate breaths. The serial killer took a sharp left, leading them into a labyrinth of streets and back alleys, where John speculated on how flawlessly Sherlock had these mapped in his mind. Sherlock threw himself against the crumbling brickwork, and ricochet down the street in hot pursuit. The training he had participated in the previous day with Irene had only heightened his rush of adrenaline as he trailed the killer.

John had begun to track the path they had taken, but got lost after a few meagre turns. He swerved to avoid a bollard, then a thought struck him, it wasn't an urgent thought, more like an inkling in the back of his mind, but present none-the-less. Where was Irene? She had been hot on the trail for most of the chase, but at some point he had lost sight of her. John cast his gaze back over his shoulder, but the street was deserted, the only sound the pant of his breath and the drop of his feet as they fell in a heavy pattern on the road. "John, do keep up, we're losing him!" came the desperate cry from the opposite end of the street. John took to running, feeling his pulse beat reassuringly in his limbs as he pressed onwards.

Irene navigated the borough with inhuman ease, drawing on the rhythm of the night air as it danced past her swiftly moving form. Left here, twenty paces, right, bollard, blind corner, nine paces, left, left, railing, stairs, vault wall, one meter drop, recover, left. She leapt, the ground rushed to greet her, she stumbled and sprang to the left, right into the path of the killer. He yelped involuntarily, skidding on the loose gravel that sprinkled the path. Irene wasted no time, she darted a hand to his throat, paralysing his vocal cords. He stared at her dumbfounded. She drop kicked him in the gut. The man slammed into the ground and lay writhing in pain, momentarily disabled by surprise. Sherlock bounced off the wall, nearly tripping on the sprawled limbs of his former opponent. "What took you so long?" he gasped as he snapped the metal handcuffs onto the criminal's weakly resisting wrists. Irene shrugged, breathing heavily. "I had to change my shoes."


	4. Chapter 4

John woke early on a bright and uncharacteristically calm day. It was a Sunday, day of rest, though John rather suspected he would be doing nothing of the sort. He heard a clattering of pans from downstairs, and heaved his sleep-drugged body from under the covers. Something smelled distinctly of burning, as John descended the wizened stairs. This was his daily routine, John would wake hours after Sherlock, and would first do a mental scan of his surroundings to make sure the house was still standing, then he would creep downstairs and check on his friend, who was generally engaged in an experiment, either having just blown up the microwave or some other household appliance, or in the process of doing so. After the hazard was averted, he would return upstairs to have a shower, all he could do was hope that everything was still there when he came out again. An aqueous light rippled off the bland beige wallpaper and ran down the steps in a frenzied cascade, lapping at the banisters and sloshing against the closed door. Upon opening said door he was confronted by a sublimely humorous sight.

The great Sherlock Holmes slouched against the mantelpiece. One arm cradled the skull from the little shelf, the other was folded defensively against his chest, which rose and fell rhythmically with his steady breaths. For once, John observed, he looked well rested. His graphite grey eyes were bright and glittering with life, though he was pouting. Yes, Sherlock was pouting, the sight was very amusing to John as he coasted across the room to the entrance to the kitchen. Irene flitted about the room, fanning a smoking pan which fizzled and hissed with malice. Her hair was pulled loosely into a bun, stray curls of burnished chestnut coiled around her face like smooth snakes. Her cheeks were flushed pink and she was panting with exertion. She wore dark jeans and a baggy t-shirt, belonging to the detective no doubt. John looked suitably shell-shocked, and went to pull a saucepan off the heat which threatened to explode. "Uh, smells good?" John offered, lifting the scalding lid of the saucepan and peering inside. Irene chuckled, "God, I hope not!" She said, throwing him a damp tea towel for his slightly burnt fingers. John was confused, he watched Irene glide to a halt and melt against the countertop. "For a start, that's not edible," she said, as John took a cautionary sniff of the contents of the saucepan. "To be honest I should imagine it's toxic." John studied the liquid in the saucepan with a morbid fascination; it looked like some kind of greenish yellow soup, then a severed finger bobbed lazily to the surface.

John fought the urge to vomit, and placed the saucepan back on the stove to finish simmering. "Not toxic." Sherlock grumbled, setting down the skull gently, contemplating the vacant and gloomy sockets with an unhealthy fondness and compassion. He drew the mental monologue with his absent friend to a close, running a long finger along the pale cranium, caressing the dips and crevasses in the bone. He sauntered into the kitchen, taking charge of the outwardly chaotic mess. "Morning, John!" he said cheerily, sweeping past him to the stove, where he bustled about, lifting the lids of the pans, drawing a long, exaggerated breath to pull the scent into his lungs for inscrutable analysis. Satisfied with his observations, and having apparently recovered from his sulk, he moved towards Irene, planting a tender kiss on her jaw and whisking the smouldering pan from her fingers. It was then that John noticed the green and brown smears over the work surfaces and cupboards. "Sherlock, what the bloody hell have you done to the kitchen?" He squeaked in dismay.

"It's an experiment!" Sherlock quipped, mopping the substance in an attempt to redeem himself, but only succeeding in smearing it further.

"It's an abomination!" John exclaimed, eyeing the dripping walls. Sherlock spluttered something inaudible in what might have been Latin, and took to buffing the countertops diligently with a vigorous hand. Sherlock was certainly not blessed with describable domestic capability, but John knew he did try, at least there was that. John turned and headed upstairs to shower and change, leaving the pair in the demolition site that was the kitchen.

Irene swung her legs playfully from the countertop while Sherlock worked around her, lifting her legs in one swift motion, catching her back as she flailed and gave a little gasp of surprise in another, smiling ruefully at her disgruntled features.

John descended the stairs for a second time that morning, longing for a cup of tea in his favourite striped mug, and dismissing the desire in recognition of the biohazard that was the kitchen of 221B Baker Street. This time nothing smelt like it was on fire, he so wanted to take that as a positive aspect, but John knew this probably just meant that something else had gone wrong besides that, though it may be a small improvement. The soprano wail and mournful drawl of the violin greeted his eager ears as he entered the living room.

Irene sighed contentedly, reclining deeply into Sherlock's side as he ran the slender bow against the delicate strings of his violin in a sorrowful yet beautiful symphony. The consulting detective lay erratically, upside down on the sofa; his feet were propped against the headrest, his head of soft curly hair lolled over the seat of the chair. He paid the instrument no heed as the bow glanced dutifully over the strings, and instead focused on the thoroughly pleasant weight of Irene's head resting against his hard, flat stomach. Her contact sourced a satisfying heat which spread across his chest to his heart that burned furiously with his love for her. Sherlock allowed his mind to marvel at how suited they were to each other, how sublimely their bodies fitted together. The smooth dip of his chest mirrored the curve of her elegant shoulder and incline of her long neck, like pieces of an intricate puzzle. For it was a puzzle, love. He had long believed he was incapable of such irrevocable emotion, a sociopath. And while he longed to uphold that suitably isolating title, he could not deny his own heart the right to beat for another. John understood, he had always understood, always secreted a doubt as to his friend's apparent devotion to his work, and now Sherlock knew it to be true. Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock Holmes had a heart, and it was full and functioning soundly, encompassing his deep-seated denial of this obvious truth. Moriarty had been wrong about one thing, though he had recognised that Sherlock Holmes had a heart he had been mistaken in presuming that heart was weak and unhindered by torment, an instrument to toy with and exercise its limits. Sherlock knew his heart now, knew of its capabilities, its true endearment to Dr John Watson, his Doctor, his closest friend, and one Irene Adler, who was so much more.


	5. Chapter 5

Nervous, quivering fingers tightened reflexively on the trigger. The gun kicked back with a turbulent force, spitting the cartridge to the side as the glinting bullet sliced through the air towards its stubbornly static target. John Watson felt the muscles in his limbs seize up and paralyse him. He saw the bullet, saw it tracking a smooth and deadly path towards him, felt the air shift as it parted for the nugget of metal. It moved with impossibly sluggishness, drawing it out, deepening the fear that crippled him. "Run John. Run away. Run like you did before. This time you can't escape me. You were such a coward, so weak; you let your friends die in your place. Run John, run." It whispered to him, he could see it, his end, his death, and now his body betrayed him, he was trapped in his mind, helpless like an infant, and so very afraid.

Sherlock watched his friend, saw the memories, saw the pain and fear behind those kind and tortured eyes he had grown to know so well. Sherlock Holmes ran. He ran like he had never run before. He ran as though nothing else mattered, because nothing else did. His chest was ablaze and a searing pain tore its way through his lungs, but still Sherlock ran. Everything screamed at him to stop, give up, because it wouldn't ever be enough to save John. He ran on against the onslaught, the blood roaring in his ears and his very real heart threatening to burst through his ribcage. Sherlock barrelled into John, taking him in a fierce embrace and knocking him from the path of the bullet, slamming his friends shoulder into the ground with such force that he cried out in pain. John scrambled onto his knees, his head felt clouded by surprise, but in an instant he knew something was terribly wrong.

Sherlock Holmes lay sprawled on the ground; his pale fingers clawed the soil in desperation as he fought to take a breath into irresponsive lungs. The air tore at his throat and sliced vicious blades of blinding pain through his torso. John threw himself in an anguished heap at his friend's side, frightened, experienced fingers pulled at the starchy cotton of Sherlock's shirt. John's breath caught in his throat, his busy hands stilled, he was hypnotised by the dark crimson stain blossoming from his friend's chest where the bullet had effortlessly carved a fleshy path through his body, just below the blade of his left shoulder. The bullet meant for John. He could see it in there, the terrible shards of metal, winking at him from the glistening gore. He looked away, the wound was identical to the one John had received in Afghanistan; he knew that any attempt to remove it would cause Sherlock more harm than good. He fumbled with the last of the buttons; gingerly easing the fabric over Sherlock's shoulder to expose the impossibly pale alabaster skin beneath, tainted with the blood which pulsed thick and consistently through his fingers as he applied pressure to the wound. He wanted to tell Sherlock that it was going to be ok, that his Doctor would make it better, stop the pain, but he couldn't lie. He stripped the woollen scarf from his friend's neck with able hands and held it to the tunnel in Sherlock's torso, increasing the pressure. Sherlock cried out, his body convulsed, his cold fingers found John's wrist, taking it in his vice-like grip. John was hurting, he knew, but there was no other way he could think of to stop the blood as it snaked its way down his friend's body and pooled sickeningly at his waist. Sherlock's face was contorted with pain, his eyes wide and scared. His pupils were dilated, and seemed to drink in the abyss of stars mapped out to the horizon on a deep ocean of infinite blue. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his breaths were shallow and his pulse became devastatingly feint beneath the pale skin of his jaw. Sherlock's ashen lips traced the ghost of John's name. Closing his eyes, John cradled Sherlock's head in his lap and soothed him by humming an old lullaby he hadn't know he even remembered. His gravelly voice tuned out the sirens as they approached. The dread he felt growing within his chest was banished, his doubts retreated deep inside him. John sat, and hummed, and rocked his friend under the canopy of stars. He felt very small, and very alone. He barely noticed when the police came, and the ambulance team, until they took his friend away. He clung to his cold hand with such resilience that they had to prise their fingers apart from each other. Then John was lost, an insignificant, lonely star in the infinite expanse of a lightening sky.

'_Rock a bye baby '_


	6. Chapter 6

He had been unconscious for some time, slipping from reality into dream. Everything was bright and burned his eyes as he battled against his body to draw them open. When he succeeded, he was disappointed. There was no Irene, no John, instead a cluster of concerned faces peered at him intently, voices shouting urgently, so many that it blurred into an invariable continuance of noise. The ceiling rushed past above him, he was lying down, and everything was white, except for the curious splash of scarlet in the corner of his restricted vision. He could feel the metal inside him; feel the uncomfortable friction of it against his skin, pressing on the fabric of his being, an intruder in his body. He wasn't scared. He was overwhelmed, yes, oppressed by the bombardment of so many new strains on his senses. Sherlock catalogued the distressing familiarity of the cool needle probing beneath his skin, its sharp sting as it injected him with an unknown substance, probably morphine. He felt the blood drying and cracking on his chest where his life was pouring out of him as they rushed him through the hospital, heard the irritating nasal whinnying of the doctor at his head as he exerted himself in manoeuvring the bed. Then the darkness descended, the vision faded, and he was unconscious once more.

John walked dazedly through the hospitals endless corridors. He could hear the distant hum of the electric lighting which gave out a sickly artificial emanation, it hammered against his skull. He swayed precariously and had to fall against the wall. When the world stopped pirouetting around him, he started walking again, shuffling closer to his destination. A young nurse hurried past him, disappearing almost as instantaneously as she had appeared, leaving behind the lonely swing of the heavy doors on their hinges, which fell closed again with a dismal finality. He reached the ward and peered at the lettering, his vision swam and he felt sick again, but he pushed at the door. It opened with little resistance into a stuffy and similarly lit room lined with beds. John gave a sharp intake of breath which was tainted by chemicals and the aroma of chlorine and other less apparent substances. Sherlock's bed was empty. Everything had been cleared and two nurses were busy disinfecting the bed and tirelessly changing the already immaculate sheets. He approached them with caution, fear already settling itself into his heart. "Excuse me," his voice cracked, John began again. "I was wondering if you could help me, I'm looking for a Mr Sherlock Holmes, he was the patient in that bed." He relayed, his voice a little steadier but still unable to conceal his worry. One of the nurses raised her head and gave him a curt nod and a thin smile. She passed instructions to the younger nurse to continue her task, and led him back down the corridor, making no allowances for John's slow limping walk with her brisk pace. They reached a separate room halfway down the corridor which John had failed to notice. The room was a private sleeping area for patients who were recovering from contagious illnesses such as colds and flu, or those who were particularly troublesome in their manner. If this was the case, John had a suspicion that his friend had not accommodated his bedfellows too kindly to end up in such isolation. The nurse deposited him at the door to the room, giving him a pleasant enough smile, and turned on her heel.

Sherlock Holmes sat propped up in bed by a number of pillows. He looked a mere shell of the man John had been running about London with only days before. His eyes were sunken and his skin held a dull pigment which made it look grey and sickly. Sherlock was dressed in loose fitting hospital regulation pyjamas, white and pin striped with blue, they hung off his narrow frame comically. John could see the tip of a coarse bandage wrapped tightly around his friend's torso, and he felt again a pang of guilt that gnawed relentlessly at his insides. Irene sat loyally by his bedside, she looked dogged and impossibly tired. John wondered how anybody could remain conscious in that state. She laid a gentle hand on his arm, and Sherlock covered it with his own. John felt as though he were intruding, he nearly backed out of the door, when Sherlock raised his head. The warmest grin overtook the detectives face, John almost feared it would split his cheeks it was so wide and dazzling and full of life. "John!" Sherlock said with such enthusiasm that John couldn't help but return the grin. He limped to Sherlock's bedside, his friend made to get up, seeming to possess the full intention of enveloping him in a hug though he was clearly unable to endeavour such movement. Irene threw a firm but loving hand against his uninjured shoulder, pinning him in place. He scowled in annoyance, but beckoned John to his side with a frantic flap of his wrist. John couldn't see a chair in the small room, but Irene stood from hers and offered it to him. She made to leave in an attempt to give them some privacy, but Sherlock snagged her sleeve. She released herself and touched a warm hand to his cheek in reassurance. John watched Irene slide out of the room quietly, but not before she stooped to whisper in his ear. "He has had a considerable dose of morphine, he's not fully himself." She said, barely audible for even John to hear. He shot her a worried glance, "He's not, different," she said with a pause "but his mind has been sharper." She clarified, giving him a pat on the arm before taking her leave. Sherlock looked stricken, like someone had torn away a part of his soul. He fixed the door with a longing gaze before turning to his friend.

Sherlock's mind felt cheated, for some reason it was deprived of its usual speed and active exuberance. It felt like a champion sprinter being restrained by a tether, a mental obstacle he was unable to overcome. Something blocked his generally instantaneous accessibility to the freakishly unobvious and it was infuriating.

"You're healing well." He said at last, eyeing the part of John's thick jumper that concealed his bruised ribs intently. "Though you psychosomatic limp has returned I see." Sherlock observed. John looked at the stick in his hand miserably. "Your therapist has prescribed, with a predictable amount of inadequacy, a few weeks of bed rest. Not to worry," here a wry smile stole over his face, "I'll soon have you free-running all over London, leaping before you look, devil take the hindmost again." John smiled faintly. Sherlock's face fell, "Is something wrong?" He said, unconsciously he slipped a hand underneath his shirt, he brushed the bandages thoughtfully. He could feel the wound; a deep valley in his flesh, his skin was hot and pulled tight across his sharp collar bone. When he moved, he could feel the muscles quiver in his shoulder. He felt weak. He hated it. Sherlock removed his hand. John was trembling. "No, no, nothing's wrong, apart from the fact that I nearly got my closest friend killed by some psychopathic burglar, by a bullet that was meant for me, in a street that I led you down, when all you wanted to do was go left because you're so bloody stubborn!" He bellowed, his voice shook, "Why didn't I listen to you?" He said more quietly, letting his head fall heavily into his palms in self-loathing. Sherlock remained silent; he sat in bed, quite confused, watching John intently. "Anything else?" he said at last, raising an eyebrow. John looked up; tears stained his cheeks as he considered his friend's question seriously. "And, I think someone forgot to tell Mrs Hudson." He murmured, as the older lady presented herself in the doorway, hands on hips, looking as though she was about ready to give them a good hiding. Sherlock and John gulped in unison.

Mrs Hudson sighed dramatically. "My boys" she addressed them, striding into the room and taking their hands with surprising zeal. "Thank goodness you're alive." She said earnestly, John gave up his chair to accommodate their newest visitor. Irene appeared to have left them, probably to wait at 221B and return later. With all this attention, Sherlock was almost beginning to look popular. Mrs Hudson stayed for close to two hours; they talked about mundane things like groceries and television. John considered how fortunate it was that Sherlock was currently anesthetised by vase quantities of morphine, and thus unable to complain or even roll his eyes at the benign conversation due to his uncharacteristically cheerful mood. When she left Sherlock smiled warmly and she laid a hand on his arm in a motherly gesture, "Well I best be off, get well soon dear." She said,

"Hold the fort Mrs Hudson." He returned. They watched her walk out the door. After they could no longer hear the click of her small heels on the linoleum, they lapsed into an awkward silence, punctuated occasionally by one of them clearing their throat in an attempt at conversation, but giving up before any words presented themselves.

John eyed a small clear plastic container set on the cheap plywood side table. He picked it up, turning it over in disbelief, letting the shining shards of bullet chink against each other. Sherlock watched John. John's expression was pained, he looked so very tired, and, oddly, though he would never say it aloud, older. His eyes clouded with a deep contemplation and sorrow, the likes of which Sherlock had never observed before. "Why did you keep these?" He asked. He looked repulsed as he studied the fragments of bullet the surgeons had extracted from his friend's torso. Sherlock, on the other hand, was gripped by a morbid fascination. He had had coveted them, those brilliantly complex little shards, and requested that he should keep them, and so they were cleaned and presented to him by a grim faced practitioner, who handed them over like a trophy. This was the tiny bit of practical proof he could keep for himself to remind him how he had come by what proved to be a deep, circular scar in his flesh. Not that he would forget, but there was something deliciously captivating about the way they glittered, that would always spark his nostalgia of the day he felt truly connected to his Dr Watson through the marks on their bodies and the unity of their minds. The day he knew John was a man he was glad to take a bullet for, and always would do. He would do everything he could to make sure John did not feel guilty for letting him. It was the day Sherlock Holmes became not a great man, but a good one too. He had acted out of instinct, by what was right, to save his dearest friend. What made him a good man was the pure, possessive, instinctual, very _human_ reaction to danger. Every normal person was born with this knowledge buried deep within their psyche, but Sherlock was not every normal person, and he had to learn this for himself. Unlike normal people, who were born good people and had the opportunity to make themselves into great ones, Sherlock Holmes was born a great person, with a great mind, and to become essentially human in his characteristics, what he had to discover was how to be a good person too.

John bowed his head again; carefully he set the pot back on the table. He looked up into Sherlock's soft grey eyes to find them already meeting his own. "Thank you." He said with emotion. John stared, entranced by those passive pools of graphite. Sherlock reached out a hand, placing it tentatively on his friend's shoulder, "No, John, thank _you_." He said. John frowned,

"For what?" he squeaked, feeling the weight of Sherlock's arm resting on him. Sherlock's lips quirked into a gentle smile, "For making me human."


	7. Chapter 7

In the days that passed, Sherlock Holmes became increasingly restless. He lacked his natural edge of vivacity. He felt patronised, why wouldn't these people stop fussing and let him go home? John watched helplessly as the days turned into weeks, the hours of each day for him punctuated with frequent visits to his friend. He had established that the reason Sherlock had been moved was because he 'distressed the other patients'. "It's not my fault!" Sherlock had exclaimed, "They are intolerably dull people who insist on telling me their exhaustive and boring life stories. It was as if I had not already ascertained this from the stain on their ties and the parting of their hair or the particular very suggestive scar on the inside of their wretched elbows. What is it with humans and their excessive tedium? Why must every silence be filled with their nonsensical babbling?" Here John had to take a moment to remind Sherlock of the fact that he too was human, Sherlock had dismissed the subject.

John did his best, he even brought Sherlock his beloved violin, watching his friend pluck contentedly at the suffering strings as they talked. That hadn't lasted. Apparently the hospital staff and patients had some objection to Tchaikovsky at three in the morning. Unable to communicate fully with Lestrade on the most alluring extant case, Sherlock was confined to the poorly memorised snatches of intelligence John could gather. Even a dusty Rubik's Cube John had unearthed from one of the startlingly numerous boxes of junk took him less than one minute to solve. John watched in fascination as the detective's dexterous fingers pressed against the coloured squared and adjusted their locality. Nimbly swivelling and occasionally wrenching, with a crease betraying his concentration furrowing his brow, the rows of red, blue, white, yellow, green, and orange from their disarray until they coincided with one another to form regimental blocks of the appropriate colour.

Sherlock stared blankly at the ceiling. In this claustrophobic, bland room there was little for him to observe or deduce, except for the fact that he was certain the sour faced nurse was mentally plotting various unlikely but no less effective instances in which to kill him. Predictable. There were scratchy sheets and a chlorine smell and the incessant tapping of a fly beating its dying wings against the grubby windowpane. Sherlock could sympathise with that fly. He too felt trapped, helpless, he longed for a release. Though, unlike the fly, he reasoned that someone might notice if he died. The fly's carcass would eternally lie on the sill of the window; its legs contorted and constricted against its body in death, its minute glassy wings and hairy torso a testament to perseverance, and a grim warning to others of its kind. Sherlock's body would be buried, or bludgeoned with rocks, for there was a great deal of people who would take pleasure in that too. The fly had nobody in the world who wanted to bludgeon it with rocks. How dull one's existence must be without enemies.

Caught in this endless cycle of boredom and angst, it was getting to the point where a small part of Sherlock almost regretted his remarkable recovery, and he harboured a twisted musing of what it would have been like to die. There was certainly no one he would have been happier to die in the place of, save for Irene. He loved John, loved him like he had never loved another man, as unconditionally as he loved Irene, though in an entirely different context. He felt sure that the life he had spared for John would be a good one, and he was happy to be a part of it. He recalled the feeling of being ready to let go, as the blood poured from his body, soaking John in his frantic attempt to save him from passing out. "John" He had whispered, like a chant, like a prayer. Had John sung to him? He couldn't remember. It may have been a dream. He had held his hand, rocked him, and all Sherlock could remember before slipping from consciousness was the squeeze of another's fingers entwined with his, their unbreakable bond.

Sherlock pressed the heels of his hands into the sockets of his eyes, watching the colours dance and swarm over his vision, feeling the erratic twitch of his eyeballs beneath his hands, following the patterns the colours traced across his closed lids, a kaleidoscopic pool of light and spots of brilliant hue. He counted four continuous days and nights awake now, watching the stars, just watching. So beautiful, so vast. He should sleep.

Irene visited him too, mostly at nights. Of course he knew how she got in, though the visiting hours had long passed there always seemed to be a way around security. With Irene nothing was too much, and he would wait for her every night. The moon had just begun to show through the clouds, casting a beautiful silver ribbon through his open window. The night was still and the warm delicate breeze ran soft fingers through his hair as Sherlock perched eagerly on the side of his uncomfortable bed. He started at every rustle in the foliage and every creak in the foundations of the building. He shifted in his position, two, maybe three times in anticipation. Irene pushed her way through the flower beds; she felt the scratch of the thorns on the blushing crimson roses, they tore at her bare arms as she parted them gingerly. She trod carefully in the soft earth, sodden by the recent rain, coming to rest just outside Sherlock's window. Irene could see him, seated on the bed, gazing at the moon with a distant, respectful awe. She stayed where she was, watching Sherlock in his rapture. It wasn't often that Irene could escape Sherlock's sharp senses; he should be able to tell she was there, concealing herself within close proximity behind the glass of the open window. Instead, he was lost to the sky. Suddenly he stood, planting his feet purposely on the sticky floor and padding to the window. Irene held her breath, reluctant to be caught spying on her lover. He sat on the window ledge and swung his legs over so they dangled adjacent to the red brick wall. She could see his beautiful, almost ethereal face in the darkness, the perfect bow of his soft lips, sharp, high cheekbones, his gentle eyes as they came to rest on her face. He smirked, and, reaching down a long arm, took her hand and helped her out from the bushes.

She blushed as he handed her inside. They stood for a moment just looking at each other, his heart thrummed against her flattened palm as she pressed it against his chest. He captured her lips briefly and steered them to the bed where he slid beneath the covers. Irene folded herself next to him on the single bed, mindful of his injury. Sherlock attempted to put an arm around her shoulders but stiffened with the pain of his wound. Irene lifted a tentative hand, letting her fingers creep under his shirt to smooth the coarse material of the bandage against his skin. He let her, all the while keeping a reproachful watch of her face as it creased with displeasure at the sensation of the intrusive furrow in his flesh. Sherlock hissed audibly, shying away from the burning heat of her touch. Irene withdrew her hand, startled by his sudden outburst. Sherlock cast an apologetic glance at her, shifting so he could lean away from her as he carefully unbuttoned his shirt. He slid the material over his shoulder, exposing his chest which was swathed in the white gauze. Slowly he detached the end of the bandage and began to unwind it from his body. Irene watched as the layers were peeled away, until he parted the last strip and revealed the inflamed red tunnel through his body. Sherlock frowned, probing gently with his fingers until he could stand it no longer. He willed it to heal; he wanted the scar, like John had. More than anything he wanted everything to be as it had been before.


	8. Chapter 8

It was cold and sunny. It was a Monday. The light poured through the window of room 31 Ward C which stood slightly open. The droplets of recent rain cast shadows on the empty bed as they tracked a wet path down the glass. The window opened out onto a grey concrete courtyard, above the weed strewn slabs of stone something curious was attracting the attention of a few patients. Anyone who happened to turn their gaze to the roof of the Queen Elizabeth Hospital at precisely 9:26am on that particular Monday would have seen a tall, lithe young man expertly scaling the walls of the old building and imagined, quite incorrectly, that they were hallucinating. They might fancy that they saw that the man was dressed in hospital garments, but wore over them a long, smart dark grey coat which billowed dramatically around his form as he ascended to the roof. His hair might be messy and dishevelled; they would see, more than once and on frequent occasions, his hold slip as he clawed the guttering. No one would believe them.

Sherlock Holmes scrabbled blindly at the loose terracotta roof tiles, heaving his body up and letting it fall against the parapet. He raised a steady hand to his face, brushing a stray lock of hair from his creased brow. He held in the other hand his beloved instrument, nestled snugly against his forearm. With the grace of a jaguar he pranced along the fold of the roof, dancing an arrogant quickstep against the bright and cloudless sky. Once he found himself at the edge of the roof he dropped his legs down and drew his violin to the smooth curve of his chin. He ran the bow against the strings and they resounded with a delicate, haunting soprano. Swift fingers alternated between notes with the elegance of a Cormorant gliding over the crest of a wave.

John Watson and Irene Adler raised their heads in unison at the tempestuous melody echoing around the decrepit building of the hospital. Irene didn't hesitate. She marched up to the double doors and forced them open abusively. John stared at his flatmate silhouetted against the sky in dumb awe, Sherlock was serenading the sunrise. He reached Sherlock's room just as Irene was hoisting herself out of his line of sight from the window onto the ledge above. "What the hell are you doing?" He exclaimed, thrusting his head into the open air to glare at her disappearing form. "When you can't beat 'em..." she threw back over her shoulder, pressing the toe of her shoes into the gaps among the brick work for leverage. John couldn't quite believe it himself, but soon there he was, edging his way up the wall in quiet resignation. "Join 'em." He muttered bitterly.

Heavy clouds coasted across the sky, born on the force of the wind high up in the atmosphere, arriving and departing quickly in a fast-forwarded motion. John approached his friend as Irene pinched the back of Sherlock's neck gently to get his attention, seating herself on the slant of the roof. He smiled broadly, playing an upbeat little tune to make her laugh. Sweat had beaded on Sherlock's forehead, it was clear that playing the violin was giving him pain, but he moved onwards into the song nonetheless. His lips were taught and bloodless, pressed tight against his teeth. Sherlock's face was strained; he was endeavouring to fulfil his passion for music through his agony. John laid a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and squeezed it in a friendly manner, before taking a seat on the opposite side. John looked down, the drop was dizzying, and he swayed a little before Sherlock caught his arm to avoid him pitching over the side. Sherlock laid the violin over his knees and put each of his arms tentatively around their backs, circling Irene's waist and letting his fingers curl around John's elbow. These were the two people he needed right now, the only two people in the world that would sit with him on the edge of a roof and wouldn't ask questions. They put up with his every indiscretion and frequent moments of insanity. He'd take a bullet for each of them, for John, he already had. The world needed more people like John and Irene.


	9. Chapter 9

That day Sherlock was told he could go home. The sensation was euphoric. John came to collect him in a cab as soon as he could, and chuckled to himself as he watched Sherlock bound up the stairs to the door of 221B Baker Street. By the time John caught up with his flat mate, Sherlock was already making tea for them both. They settled into their chairs opposite each other and sipped at the striped mugs contentedly, already lapsing into the old routine they had become so accustomed to, enveloped in a satisfying and comfortable silence. Sherlock set down his mug with a disturbing finality, and hopped up further into his chair to fold his legs beneath him. He steepled his fingers, one thumb stroked the dip of his throat, his fingertips pressed against his lips thoughtfully, his elbows propped on both armrests. After some long moments of fixing John with an uncomfortably calculative glare, he tipped his hands forwards, palms pressed together. He seemed to consider this action self-explanatory, leaving a theatrical and unnecessary pause before speaking. Then, in his casual resonant tone, "I'll show you mine if you show me yours." He said with a lopsided smile.

John nearly spilt his tea.

"What?" he spluttered, setting the mug down carefully.

"Your scar, common sense dictates that you must have one after being shot in the shoulder." Sherlock lent forwards conspiratorially. John self-consciously touched his shoulder where he knew a pale, smooth, circle of his skin raised itself proudly on his front and back, they coincided with each other. The bullet had left a clean entrance and exit wound and branded him forever. Before he could protest, Sherlock had already begun unbuttoning his own shirt in deep satin purple. John watched him reproachfully as Sherlock pulled the fabric off and let the shirt pool on the floor. Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow and John sighed in reluctance. What was the harm after all? It was almost like his medal. He shrugged off his cardigan and draped it neatly over the arm of the chair, then his shirt. Sherlock rose quickly and came to kneel next to the arm of John's chair. He folded his hands over one another and his chin dropped on top of his knuckles contemplatively. John objected to the scrutiny, but didn't act on his distaste. Instead he felt Sherlock's eyes boring into him, feeling oddly relaxed by the unusual behaviour. Sherlock tipped his head and butted it against his friend's bare shoulder, sighing he walked to the sofa, still shirtless, and let himself fall down heavily onto the cushions. John stared after him, confused. "Well?" He said, tugging on his shirt awkwardly.

"Interesting" Came the reply.

"What is?"

"You"

"I am?"

"Oh yes, I mean, anatomically speaking."

"Right..."

"Left"

"What?"

"Left, your bullet wound is on your left side."

"I fail to see the point."

"We match." Sherlock smiled, stretching his arms tentatively above his head, groaning as the muscle in his left shoulder complained at him and point blank refused to comply with his movements.

"Your wound needs dressing."

"So it does." Sherlock said, without looking at the red stain already seeping into the bandage where he had broken the skin. He sat up and tugged the soiled dressing off, inspecting the tiny hollow in his chest. John frowned, striding to the kitchen to find some gauze. He returned, and took the bandage from Sherlock's hands, shoving him in the chest so he would lie back. Sherlock tipped his head against the sofa and squeezed his eyes tight shut against the pain as John dabbed at the wound with a cloth to clean it. "Stop being such a baby." John said, gently pressing the padding to his friend's chest and motioning for him to hold it there. Sherlock hissed in annoyance, but did as he was told. "Sorry." He murmured, watching John as he tightened the bandage around his torso. John flinched, the words sounded alien to him, coming from Sherlock. Sherlock grimaced, his tongue felt strange. John pinned the end of the bandage and Sherlock retrieved his shirt from the floor. "So why does it matter that we match?" John said at last, taking his seat. Sherlock shrugged with one shoulder.

"I like knowing that it's something to connect us, something we share, besides a crippling dependency on danger and a common death wish." He smiled again, privately to himself.

"We share a flat." John pointed out.

"Yes, but everyone knows we share a flat, this is more personal." Sherlock sniffed.

"I suppose, and I'm glad that it is the only way we are the same, because I rather like people talking to me and not plotting my demise." Sherlock laughed, a real, deep, tenor rumble that resounded around the room, only John could make Sherlock laugh like that.

"That's true." He said, smiling at John indulgently, little creases forming around his eyes. John did like being the same as his flatmate, and it gave him comfort that they didn't really have to speak as much anymore to understand each other, eye contact and body language was enough to convey emotion. Sherlock being shot had, in truth, brought them both closer together, and he basked in the warmth of understanding that came with sharing a bullet wound, odd as it was.

A few hours later, and Sherlock and John sat on the sofa together watching TV. The Doctor Who theme tune rolled on, reflecting in Sherlock's glassy eyes as he sat cross legged, a hot water bottle pressed to his shoulder to ease the stiffness, staring in rapt fascination at the screen. John always wondered why this was the only thing Sherlock would actually watch on the television in silence, usually he lost interest after ten minutes, but watching The Doctor running about gleefully and being incredibly clever and heroic effectively shut him up. Perhaps it was because Sherlock could relate to The Doctor, even if he was a fictional character. They were both so much cleverer than the little people. 


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock thrust the crumpled note into his pocket with unnecessary force. He threw his weight around the tiny space of his room in frustration, sending the precarious piles of novels and paraphernalia tumbling to the floor with a satisfying aggregation of clattering. Sherlock spun on his heels, hands balled into quivering fists at his sides. He was used to a comfortable absence of emotion, and he had managed quite happily through life with a sufficient indifference and devastating level naivety in that area. That was until he fell in love with Irene Adler. This _impossible _woman, who had made him act as giddy as a school boy, and stupid, so, so stupid. Now he had all these _feelings_ and he didn't know what to do. He made a sound like a dog in the back of his throat, a growl which expressed far more than words ever could, and flung himself dramatically onto his unmade bed with hopeless abandon. He breathed in deeply, face squashed and contorted with rage against the luxurious duvet where a trace of her Parisian perfume still lingered. Why did he even own a bed? He never even slept in it; at best it was a showy piece of furniture with the sole purpose of communicating the intended use of the room it occupied. Sherlock rolled onto his back, gazing unblinkingly at the particles of dust as they swirled like snowflakes against the beam of soft afternoon light from the high window, a blizzard of dead skin cells and fine molecules of cotton swarming in the haze.

All of Sherlock's clothes were expensive and a couple of his silken shirts probably cost more than the entire contents of his flatmate's wardrobe. His cologne was fragrant, illustrious and enticing; it aided him well when he was required to manipulate an uncooperative female witness or difficult client. John's skin was tanned brown as a nut, Sherlock's skin was soft and pale, a result of spending too much time fixated on a case, not going outside because the world offered him so little, such as social interaction and fresh air. Sherlock's pale, dead skin cells drifted serenely about the room. Inventing your own profession had its perks, nobody had any expectations, but being the only kind in your profession meant that one had to take a certain interest in appearances. When considered, Sherlock Holmes probably had the most pretentious dust in all of London.

With a long sigh he drew the piece of paper from his pocket once more; staring at the creamy, expensive stationary like it would divulge some explanation as to the motivations of its sender. As he unfolded the paper carefully the dog-eared photograph slipped out onto his stomach. It was a little fuzzy in the places that appeared lightest, almost as though it had been taken in a dream. The two subjects of the offending photograph smiled idiotically up at him, seated by the banks of the Thames in early summer some years ago. Irene, captivating and beautiful, her long dark hair swept back into a casual pony-tail, stray strands of wispy hair floating delicately about her face, sat with one leg crossed over the other, lady-like and glowing next to a younger, headstrong version of himself. Her face was turned towards him, about to press a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth, as he remembered, which was tweaked up in a shy and uncertain smile. He was wearing a white shirt, the cuffs rolled to his elbows and the top buttons unfastened due to the unseasonably warm weather. Cool, precipitating spring steadily crawling into English summertime. Irene wore a pretty mushroom coloured dress which fell just above her lightly tanned knees, her lips were rouged and her cheeks were flushed with a youthful exuberance, exchanged now for a desirable elegance, nerve, and unmistakable class. Sherlock's hair was shorter and wavy, his eyes startling grey-blue, bright and unfocused. He looked happy. Sherlock couldn't remember being happier than at that blissful time, apart from when he had met John. A lot had changed.

Sherlock resented his photograph being taken, but he had allowed her this one. 'Something to remember you by' had been her exact words, not really the most comforting of phrases, but his naivety had shielded the blow. Barely matured from adolescence, Sherlock was studying at Bart's, his glittering career stretching before him with Irene at his side, life was good.

He let the photo fall onto the floor, it rocked gently in the air in its decent like a dead leaf from a tree. Now, life was a bit not-good. He turned his attention to the paper in his other hand. The letter was written in the looping cursive script Sherlock had come to know so well. The sense of betrayal was overwhelming. He read it over again, scanning it for some hidden clue, any scrap of information that would give her away. Irene remained elusive and very much absent from his life once more.

Every time she left he would carefully rebuild the walls of isolation around himself like he had many times before. And then when she decided to come back as she always did, the walls that protected him for so long from any significant human interaction were demolished as he watched, leaving him standing amidst the rubble of his personal boundaries. And he let her do it of course; flitting in here, expecting him to be waiting for her, how did she know he wouldn't find someone else? He could get a girlfriend, if he so pleased. Sherlock could be nice to people, he assured himself. But in his heart he knew she was the only one, the only woman for him. She did too, and it was slowly killing him.

The letter read as follows;

'_My Dearest Sherlock,_

_I will be gone before you read this, _(Cliché. Sherlock thinks to himself, knowing she probably had realised it too.) _I promised you I would never settle down, and this is me being true to my word. I never mean to cause any distress, but you seem so content with your life, and I can only bear to be around you for a short length of time before my presence starts to have an impact. You should know that I _(Slight ink blot before the beginning of the next word, hesitation, indecision.) _am coming back. Soon, I hope. Your work will keep you busy; you won't miss me at all. _

_Love to John also. _

_Yours as always,_

_Irene.'_

John heard the emotional heavy sighs from the doorway as he arrived home with the shopping. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. He crept silently, like a burglar in his own home, and stuck his head around the door to Sherlock's bedroom. The detective laid prostrate on the bed, a broken man, his nose buried in a sheet of paper resting over his face. His eyelids flickered, John would have thought he was asleep, were it not for the occasional self-pitying whimper as he expelled the air from his lungs forlornly. John frowned with concern; Sherlock shouldn't be in pain again, he had taken the last pills only a few hours ago. "Sherlock" He said uncertainly.

"What?" The reply was almost a grunt.

"Are you, um, ok?" He asked. John knew this was a stupid question, but Sherlock smiled sadly, lifting the paper from his face and watching it flutter to the floor along with the photograph with an air of quiet resignation.

"No" Sherlock gave a small, sad smile. He pushed himself up onto his elbows and looked at John for a few long moments, John, his blogger, John his friend, who would never leave him. John Watson dropped the thin plastic shopping bags from his tired hands; the one with the slit in made a hollow thunk as it collided with the hardwood flooring, and crossed the room to sit awkwardly on his flatmate's bed. Sherlock rolled onto his side so he was facing him. For some reason John's subconscious made the decision to punch his friend on the shoulder; he had genuinely no idea why, something about needing to assert his masculinity or whatever. Sherlock looked confused for a moment, then the fog lifted and he extended a fist and thumped him back. Then Sherlock rolled away again, his back to John, and retrieved his letter of deceit from the floor. The letter felt heavy in his hands as he passed it willingly over to him. "She's gone, John. Irene's gone again." Then he turned his back once more, tugging his dressing gown around his shoulders and curling into a foetal position. John wished he could do something to comfort his friend, but there was nothing. He sat on the bed, letter in hand, listening as Sherlock's breaths became deeper and more even as he slipped into a miserable sleep. John read the note, a pang of sadness and pity swelled in his heart as he grasped the meaning. He cast his gaze to his friend on the bed, then, leaving the letter behind, stood and left Sherlock to his thoughts, closing the door quietly behind him.

From then onwards, Sherlock became increasingly distant to John. He hardly ever left the flat, it became a regular a sight to John, to see his friend when he arrived home, slouched in the sagging armchair as though he had become the piece of furniture himself. 'Sometimes I don't talk for days on end.' Sherlock had told him when they first met. He seemed to be exercising this little indiscretion to its maximum potential now, never uttering a word to John as he attempted to carry on his life around the moping Consulting Detective curled up in the far corner of the room. It went on for days; John was held in the fuzzy limbo between wakefulness and sleep every night as the tuneless screech of the violin rasped through the walls, shattering the peacefulness of the dark. John brought Sherlock coffee to stimulate his mind at this time, but returned an hour later to find it had gone cold, his offering neglected and untouched. What John Watson didn't know was that during this period of sulking, Sherlock was painstakingly revising and smoothing over the fine cracks in the walls of his consciousness that allowed him to maintain the facade of being a Sociopath. Sherlock wasn't a Sociopath, however high-functioning his mind was. Sherlock could love, and feel, and enjoy the company of others. Those others were just very specific and in an acute minority. He was tending to the raw, exposed feelings that always remained after Irene had occupied a presence in his life. It was like he was a small helpless snowman trapped in a snow globe. Irene took their love and manipulated it to her will, shaking up his life, leaving him to wait for the fragments of routine to settle into place. It could be argued that John had done just the same, except John wasn't the person disrupting his order, John was another little snowman inside the globe with Sherlock, and his life was being disrupted too.

Then, just like that, everything returned to normal. At precisely 13:51pm on a Friday two weeks after the letter had been recovered, Sherlock began to eat regularly again, to talk and move and even left the flat once to follow John to the supermarket for groceries. That was a memorable experience. Sherlock had trailed close behind John like a puppy, his calculative gaze scanning the isles of food with a puzzlement John found quite amusing. John decided he didn't like seeing Sherlock carrying a Tesco bag, it looked unnatural, he vowed to accept the chore of doing the shopping in future.

John would watch his friend as he ran out the door, in a fit of indecent glee after receiving information on a case deemed worthy of his time. He watched him hungrily devouring the food he offered at irregular mealtimes when he wasn't on a case. He watched as Sherlock deduced and insulted and set about causing wonder and confusion wherever he went. John watched from where he stood as his friend's shadow, not always noticeable but always there, basking in the warmth of the light Sherlock emitted, the brilliance of his mind so sharp and focused. John did not hear him refer to Irene Adler by her name for a long time. Although it was clear Sherlock thought of her often. John would sometimes catch him unguarded, staring wistfully out of the window of 221B like he was waiting for her, perhaps. He never communicated this to John, and John was content to leave the subject alone, for now. If ever Sherlock Holmes mentioned her at all, she was always, as she would continue to be, The Woman.


End file.
